Foot Notes: Black and White Thinking

By Guy Kennaway and Hussein Sharif

When Guy Kennaway, 63, a white, middle class, overweight, English, Tory-voting writer met Hussein Sharif, 22, an African-born, inner city, Tory-hating Muslim, they assumed they had little in common. But newly related by marriage, they decided to go on a walk through Britain to get to know each other. Guy'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mensch Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781912914272

Guy Kennaway

Guy Kennaway is a writer of fiction and memoir. He is best known for his novels ONE PEOPLE, about village life in Jamaica, BIRD BRAIN, about a bunch of optimistic pheasants, and for his memoir TIME TO GO about killing his mother (with her permission.). His most recent novel, THE ACCIDENTAL COLLECTOR, won the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize for Comic Fiction in 2021. His most recent memoir is FOOT NOTES, a broad comedy about race and nationality which he wrote with his relative Hussein Sharif.'In all my writing my aim is to delight and amuse,' Kennaway has said. 'Hopefully I make people laugh out loud. Laughter is our most effective weapon in the battle against the difficulties and struggles of life. If I can transport my reader to a happy, joyful world, my mission is successful.'

Book preview

Foot Notes

This book is dedicated to my grandchildren, Ezra, Lola, Nahla, Amour, and the one soon to be born.

That’s just the way it is,

Things will never be the same.

This book describes events which occurred between 2018 and 2020. Hussein and Guy are our real names, but some of the other people in the book have had their names changed to protect their privacy.

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Without making it obvious, I double-checked my car was locked and glanced through the side window to see if there were valuables in view. I saw just two books on the back seat, objects unlikely to be the targets of any thieves on St Albans Road, Tottenham, London NE17. Only a couple of days earlier, someone had been the victim of knife crime, as they daintily called being stabbed to death, on its food-splattered tarmac. I doubted it was a fight about books. A hoodied youth on a bike turned lingering circles on the cracked pavement, as though toying with me, and when I crossed the road pretending not to be avoiding him, though I was, I was casually monitored by some Rastas leaning against a wall next to a car with its bonnet up. I gave them all my I-am-firm-and-no-nonsense-but-definitely-not-racist smile.

It’s necessary here to describe myself. I think I resemble mid-late James Coburn. Which is why it’s always a bit dismaying to look in the mirror and see Benny Hill staring back. Yes. I am a slightly deluded pink, portly Englishman in his sixties, with thick grey hair and grey eyes. I say English, but actually I am mixed heritage – my father was indigenous Scottish, and my mother was born in Watford. You can’t get much whiter than me. After a week of sunbathing on holiday I do change colour, from flat white to magnolia, and then back to flat white when I’m on the plane home.

I was in Tottenham that October afternoon to pick up my new friend, Hussein, and introduce him to the British countryside. We were now related because his sister had given birth to my son’s first child. At a family event we had found ourselves sitting next to each other at the lunch table and I said to him, ‘I’ve never met anyone like you. A young Muslim living in an inner-city council flat. I’ve seen you depicted in movies and you’re always on the TV news, often throwing something at the police, but I’ve never actually met anyone like you.’

He said, ‘I’ve never met anyone like you. I’ve seen your type – white, middle age, middle class and male, in loads of films and you’re always on TV, usually the Police Commissioner in charge of the cops being pelted with rocks, but I’ve never met anyone like you in my life.’

We discovered we had one thing, at least, in common: a high level of anxiety. I told him that when life got too stressful to me, I calmed my jitters by taking a long walk and somehow, from there, we hatched a plan to go on foot across Britain together.

I planned a forty-mile hike along the Offa’s Dyke Path, up the English/Welsh border, a rich stretch of undulating landscape where I could show Hussein the splendour of the country, and explain to him the many delights of our historic culture, as this was the county of Elgar and Housman and not far from the birthplace of William Shakespeare. That way, I argued, he would feel more excited about being British than he seemed thus far to be, cooped up and a bit pissed off in a small apartment in Tottenham. Fresh air, fine landscape, and frank exchanges on a walk through the Shropshire hills would soon show him how lucky he was to have made a life in the UK. I would hum Elgar and declaim Housman. Which reminded me, I needed to look up Housman as I had forgotten it all. My chosen route went between two friends who had farms on the footpath, forty miles apart. The first lived in a Georgian mansion, the second in an Elizabethan house, both of which struck historical notes which I particularly wanted Hussein to appreciate.

I am aware I am controlling this narrative.

And I know my hands are heavy on its steering wheel.

I am also aware that telling these kinds of narratives is exactly what my type of person has been doing to Hussein’s type – can I even say that? – for … for millennia. Is that long enough? At least in Europe. I am holding some people down, and holding them back, with my words.

But I want to change. I want to see it another way. I am, frankly, bored of my own perspective – after all, most books, films, plays, songs, you name it, are written from it and, unlike those who believe in identity politics, I think I am quite capable of seeing things another way. Hussein’s way, for instance. I wrote an entire novel from the point of view of a pheasant (Bird Brain, read it), so I reckon I can get my head around a fellow human being living a different experience. For me, identity politics is a gateway drug to full blown racism.

But I needed a de-colonisation of my narrative.

That sounds like a medical procedure. Bend over, Guy, this is going to hurt.

But how could I jump the rails of my white male privilege, and see things a different way?

I guess I had to hear Hussein’s own words, in his own voice. And I could only do that by asking him his opinion. But even if I asked for his version of events, and wrote them into this book, I would still be the author of his words. I would still be in control. The narrative would still be colonised.

The best solution I can come up with is to allow Hussein to have his own say, without interpretation from me. To correct my mistakes, and to dispute or corroborate my observations as he sees fit. That way he can create his own reality, and show me who he is, as I show him who I am. I have therefore decided to allow him to make a commentary on my text. Say fifty words at the end of each chapter.¹

All right, Hussein, you chime in whenever you want, on any page, in the footnotes.

Hussein was born in Somalia, grew up in Kenya and arrived in London when he was eight years old. ² He was now twenty-one, and had recently dropped out of Canterbury University³ suffering from anxiety so acute it kept him pinned down at home. He had difficulty going on public transport, so I had driven the round trip of seven hours from my place in Somerset to pick him up.⁴

Hussein lived with his sister, her kids, his mum, his aunt, and three of his younger brothers in a flat on an estate not far from the White Hart Lane stadium in Tottenham.

The Victorian terraced street, which I was now walking down towards Hussein’s block reminded me of Notting Hill in the late 70s. Apart from some Windrush-esque splashes of exterior gloss it was fairly run down. There were not yet any new sash windows, plantation shutters or Farrow and Balled front doors, but a mattress and some rubble in one front garden was a sign that someone was upgrading, and that this street in Tottenham was soon going to be colonised by tribes of gentrifyers pushing north through Highbury.

The council estate I was heading for was gentrification-proof. As was standard for 1960s public housing, it had slow and ugly decline designed into it. When I first visited my new family, I had felt intimidated going there. I had never set foot in a council flat in all my life. Actually, that was not quite true: I had twice entered council flats and both were owned by someone well off who was trying to scam the council either into selling it, or subletting it for profit. I had definitely never visited someone living on a council estate like this one.

I know. That says something about me, and it’s not altogether good, is it?

When I had first visited the housing estate, two years earlier, I had been anxious about being held up at knife point for my phone. Good luck to them finding that. I had a coat over a tweed jacket and a gilet; even when it was ringing it took me about ten minutes to locate it. I diverted myself from my anxiety imagining a world in which people were mugged for books (Mi ‘ave gun. Mi wan ‘ardback).

Much to my surprise, there seemed to be something familiar about the uneven paving, rank alleyways and scrofulous grass between the tower blocks. Then I realised it was in the landscape of the TV shows of my youth. In a flat on the sixth floor of that block over there, Rodney was being bollocked by Del Boy, while their three-wheeler stood parked by the boarded-up shops. Arthur Daly’s Jag was safe in his railway arch over there and Arthur was filling Terry in on a scam in that dilapidated pub on the corner. The only confusing thing was that Dennis Waterman was also careering down this street in a squad car chasing a villain who was making for the locks-up round the back, the place the robbers always seemed to head for in The Sweeney.⁵

I wondered if the people on the street thought I was a copper. The kind played by John Thaw. D.I. Regan, that was his name. Tough, grisled and with no sympathy for the underdog.

While I waited for Hussein to answer the intercom at the newly installed security door, I perused a notice board advertising the ward councillors. The intercom was surprisingly serviceable; I could hear Hussein, and he me. The lock had not been tampered with and inside the building it was clean and tidy,⁶ though the steel doors of the lift bore scratches where graffiti had been scoured off.

Waiting for the lift, I lost myself in my book-mugger game.

Through a metal grille on a window off the walkway I glimpsed a filthy print den. Five bodies lay on the floor, one or two tragically young, holding out ten-pound notes, while a dealer went around them dishing out pages ripped from a novel. (Careful with this. It’s strong. What’s it? Burroughs. Burroughs? That’s killer shit man. Yeah, The Wild Boys. American edition.)

I can’t help noticing that one of my little fantasies about the area featured violence, and the other drugs. That is called, I believe, textbook racism. Why do I have these thoughts? With that gloomy observation on my mind, I arrived at the flat.

Hussein answered the door, smiled anxiously, and turned away, leading me inside. He had a fuzz of wiry black hair, almost like an afro⁷, a wispy beard, a hooked nose⁸ that widened at the nostrils, and a look in his eyes that somehow combined panic and kindness. His skin was black. He was a black man, like I was a white man: extremely so. To a very high degree. If they ever do, as Blue Mink suggested in their 1969 hit, put a great big melting pot on the hob to turn out coffee-coloured people by the score, Hussein and I will be headed into the pot rather than being poured out onto the baking tray.⁹ ¹⁰

He’s right. Installing Hussein at the bottom of the page in a diminutive font size has not solved the problem.

I have an American friend¹¹ who was an academic at the University in Kingston Jamaica whom I trusted on these kind of matters, so I asked her what she thought of giving Hussein footnotes.¹²

She said, ‘I get where you are coming from, and I think it is interesting, but how comfortable are you with footnotes? I mean, I can see what you are trying to do, okay, but I remember in history at school being taught exclusively white stuff like the kings and queens of England, and then we would turn a page in the textbook and, in a different colour with a box round it would be something about a Native Indian or slavery. That was our bit, reduced to that. You see?’

‘Mmm,’ I said. It was slightly annoying, since I had thought it solved my patriarchal narrative problem with Hussein.

‘You might have to come up with another idea.’

‘Mmm,’ I said again.

‘It might be a bit more complicated than you thought,’ she laughed.

She was right. I was now feeling uncomfortable about the whole footnote idea. I liked the pun on walking. But by their very nature, footnotes are secondary to the main text, so I remained in the controlling position. I need to change the rules of the book so Hussein can be heard more.

I came up with a new idea: I will allow Hussein into the main text, but his words will appear in another colour, so our voices can be easily distinguished. I rang him to tell him about the plan. But first I spoke to Miranda, the editor of this book.¹³

‘I was thinking of getting round the footnote problem by putting Hussein’s remarks in red. It’s a good idea, eh? Then our voices will have equal weight on the layout.’

‘I’m afraid not, Guy,’ said Miranda. ‘A second colour is out of the question.’

‘That’s ironic.’

‘It’s cost. Charkin¹⁴ won’t pay for it.’

‘I’ll have another think.’

‘Hussein,’ I said, when I finally tracked him down. He hadn’t made it easy to get his number, I noticed. ‘I want to talk to you about this footnotes idea.’

‘Hold on, I’ll just leave the room.’ The shouts and shrieks of kids at play diminished.

Yuh? What?’ He said.

‘I wanted to let you write all over the book, not just in footnotes, but they won’t let me use red, so we can see it’s your voice.’

‘Can I use emoticons, bro?’

‘No. I hate them. You have to use words. This is a book not a teenage text message.’

‘Not just teenagers use ‘em, Guy. I fink you’re getting left behind here.’

‘You are not using emoticons, and Miranda has nixed a new font. I’m not sure why. I was thinking of putting you in brackets.’

‘Wha?’

‘No, you’re right, you don’t want to be bracketed.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hussein. ‘How about making me black?’

‘I’m black,’ I said.

‘No, big and black, I mean. Put me in bold. Bold and black,’ he chuckled. ‘Wiv capitals too.’

I thought for a moment. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘that’s a good idea. Let’s do that. But no capitals, they’d dominate too much.’

HERE I AM. SALAM AGAIN, EVERYONE!!! I have finally got myself in my rightful place in this book. The problem’s sorted, Guy. I’ll write where I like. HOW I LIKE.

But there’s another issue. The book is called FOOT NOTES, Hussein.

Not my problem. You can write footnotes on my stuff if you like. Then you can know what it’s like being stuck in a little box at the bottom of the page.

Hussein is an East African Muslim. I could easily picture him swathed in a white turban, hawk on his wrist, astride a sleek white mare, atop a screensaver-grade sand dune, princely in profile I like this, in sunlight so strong it made me scrunch up my eyes to imagine the glare. I could also see him cast as a terrorist in an American action movie like the fake Somalians in Black Hawk Down, or at least the younger brother of the leading bearded terrorist, who tragically gets drawn into the conspiracy. In the same movie, I may add, I am cast as the redneck mayor who claimed he wanted only justice but on the weekends was a Klansman.

At this point I knew very little about Hussein apart from where he lived and that he suffered panic attacks.

All I knew about Guy was that he was an old white man. I was sceptical and slightly worried about the walking idea, thought what’s he up to?, coz my sister, Sal, had warned me about him being a snob.¹⁵

Unlike my fantasies of life on the estate, the salient features of the Hussein family household were its peaceful, loving atmosphere and the total absence of drugs, including alcohol. I picked my way between about ten pairs of children’s shoes on the stairs and approached the sound of happy little boys.

Usually, I found Hussein wearing a jellabiya I don’t know what that is, but I’m a guessing Guy is talking about my khamis in a low armchair with the children clambering over him, but today he was checking his rucksack while the three boys sat on the ornate, varnished chaise longue,